Crackers

I've been trying to decide which day would be the best day to go to the Mahket. Which day is the least crowded. Weekends definitely out. First through the third of the month, the day weeble social security checks hit the bank are definitely out. Tuesday and Wednesday had possibilities until Prissy mentioned these days were senior citizen days at various stores. I have enough problems dealing with my own weebles without dealing with everyone else's. That left Monday or Thursday. Hmmm, Thursday probably the day people wanted to get a jump on the weekend. Monday. People would have already crammed the store on Saturday and Sunday. Monday seemed like the logical choice.

Monday off to the Mahket. As we pulled into the parking lot, I spotted not one, but two free handicap spots! Maybe Monday would be the best shopping day afterall. The weather was also blistering hot and humid, and I was hoping that would keep the crowds away. Course, people might find relief diving into the frozen food cases. If getting my choice of handicap spaces was an indication, I'd hope for the best.

I sent Dad into the store to get a scooter while I helped Ma out of the car. The carriage boy, the one who collects the empty carriages from the parking lot and pushes them back to the store, and the one who glares and makes faces at me when I park at the end of the store in the fire lane and load weebles and groceries approached me.

"Will she need a scooter?" he asked solicitiously.

Whoa, he must have had a visitation from three ghosts the night before.

"No, thank you, my father is bringing one out to her." And on cue, Dad brought the scooter to Ma.

Inside, the store wasn't horribly crowded. I breathed a sigh of relief though that was short lived as Ma rounded a corner and nearly bowled an elderly gentleman over.

He gave me the look. The one I use on parents of young children who are getting out of hand. Mind your young, or eat them.

I gave him a cool look. If you think you can do a better job, you're welcome to her, pal.

Ma worked her way through produce and ended at tomatoes. Plum tomatoes were too expensive. Big Boy tomatoes looked like some sort of mutant cross. Smoothness and color of tomatoes but the size of small pumpkins. The tomatoes on the vine weren't a bad price and at least looked normal size.

"Get three pounds. But make sure they are solid," Ma admonished as I opened the plastic bag and started feeling up the tomatoes.

"Solid". Dad's word. He must have given her shopping instructions before I arrived.

The woman next to me offered some helpful advice. "There really aren't many good ones."

"Last time, the tomatoes you picked turned all white inside," said Ma.

I waited for her to tell me the tomatoes were "touched" so I could retort I knew who really was touched, but she didn't say anything further. She just sat on her scooter throne watching which tomatoes I was chosing.

"Here. If you don't like the tomatoes I pick, then pick your own." I held the back open and Ma groped through the tomatoes selecting a couple.

"Just like these."

Fine.

With produced picked we headed to meat, but Ma got sidetracked when she spotted the cleaning aisle.

"I need the stick to mop the floor."

The stick. The Swiffer dry mop. Ma loves them.

"But you bought one two weeks ago when we were here before."

"I want one to use with the dry cloths and one to use with the wet. Oh, and get the cleaner for the cook top."

Ma scooted up the cleaning aisle and rounded the corner nearly knocking over a young woman kneeling on the floor harvesting cans from a low shelf.

"What's this?" Ma asked.

"Cat food," I said.

"Oh, I thought it was tuna fish."

"It is, but not for you." Please Gawd, don't let her try to sample the cat food.

The other end of the pet aisle was clear and the aisle was surprisingly wide without carriages and shoppers. Ma opened up her throttle and nearly collided into another shopper's carriage as Ma tried to roar through the intersection. I could almost hear the tires of the scooter squeal.

Back towards produce because Ma caught sight of white grapes for 99 cents per pound in a refrigerated case across from poultry.

Happy she found the grapes, Ma left produce again and zipped towards meat. She didn't quite negotiate the turn around the case where she first spotted grapes and she slammed into a pallet of cardboard cases. Three boxes shot into the air like canon balls and landed with louds smacks that brought the entire meat department to a stand still.

Undaunted, Ma backed up, without looking, made her turn and continued on as if nothing happened. A hit and run.

I picked up the three cardboard boxes and was relieved to find they housed crackers. I was happy the cartons weren't loaded with jars of pickles. At least cracker boxes come with the some contents may settle during shipping disclaimer.

I heard a tuneless whistle and knew Dad was close by. He shuffled by his carriage laden with a dozen items. We were closing in on the hour and a half mark in the store and I was amazed his carriage had so few items.

"We're almost done," I informed him. "We just have to get some frozen vegetables."

"Did she get the Italian bread?"

"No. Go get the bread and meet us in the frozen food aisle."

I had retrieved a two pound bag of mixed vegetables, and peas. Dad rounded the corner so I put those items in his carriage. I continued down the aisle shouting to Ma if she needed this vegetable or that one.

"Do you want some cauliflower"

"No!" shouted Dad.

"Yes," said Ma.

"Which is it?"

"No!"

"Yes!"

"Oh, let her have it!" snarled Dad.

I wasn't too sure if he meant for me to retrieve a bag of cauliflower from the freezer or to whack Ma upside the head with the frozen bag.

"You know, shopping with you two is like being in an Abbott and Costello routine."

Ma exited frozen foods and headed to the opposite end of the store. The end where Dad had supposedly done the shopping.

"Where's she doing now?"

I looked at him. "She's playing pinball. Stay close so we don't lose her."

Ma turned up cereal and called, "Get me three boxes," as she zoomed past.

I picked up three boxes of Ma's special cereal, store brand mini wheats.

"Go long!" I called to Dad as I chucked the boxes in his carriage.

"Why does she need three boxes?"

I could see the dollar signs cha-chinging in his eyes. One way or the other, Dad pays.

"Now where's she going?" he whined.

"She going to get into the checkout line."

Sure enough, I found Ma waiting in the 10 items or less line.

I directed Ma to the next cashier. I should have waited to see if a ruckus ensued because Ma had ten times the required limit in her cart, but then I would be the one blamed and scorched by eye glare from the other shoppers. Madame, control your weebles or eat them!

Hope you're happy, Langley. I know you've been hoping that Ma would take out an entire endcap of Little Debbies. Keep wishing and praying. (-;

In The Works

Himself and I stopped at the big orange box store down the road apiece, next town over. (approx. 6 mi.)

"What's that going up?" he asked.

"Rumor has it, it's going to be a grocery store. Prissy told me The Mahket. I'm hoping it's a movie theater."

"Nope, doesn't look like a theater. Looks like a grocery store."

"Won't Ma love that."

"She ain't shopping here."

Green Eyes

After pounding Tuesday into everyone's calendar, Ma called on Monday to say the doctor cancelled out. I happy danced around the house. Free day! Free day! Ma was hoping I would take them to Mahket Basket. On the first of the month? On the day every weeble gets his or her social security check? What ah you? We'll go Thursday.

Backstory: Three months ago Prissy's daughter came to pick Prissy up for a girl's day out. While out, their car was broad-sided (T-boned for you Dragon Landers). Prissy was taken to the hospital as a precaution. Both women were just shaken, but not stirred. Prior to the accident, Prissy had been having shoulder pain which her doctor at first, had told her was bursistis. The accident aggravated the shoulder and an MRI showed a torn rotator cuff. Prissy couldn't lift her arm to shift the car in and out of gear, so she stopped driving.

Tuesday. I was celebrating my free day by dancing around the living room. I looked out the front window across the street to Prissy's house, and I saw her standing on the front stairs. So like Gladys Cravits, the nosy neighbor on Bewitched, I pressed my nose to the glass to see what was going on. Prissy was dressed up to go out. Her hair was curled into place and she had her pocketbook looped around her arm. She was looking up and down the street. Waiting.

As entertaining as it was to look out the window, I went back to the sunroom to work on the laptop. Movement by the left side entrance of Flo's horseshoe driveway caught my eye. A small, white shuttle bus was pulling in. The Senior Citizen shuttle bus. My eyes turned green. Prissy's daughter didn't have to haul Prissy's butt hither and yon. She didn't have to take her to Price Chopper, or the doctor, or physical therapy. Prissy had called (48 hrs in advance) to request the shuttle. The shuttle that would take her to the Senior Center for 50 cents each way or to an out of town location for a dollar each way. Two bucks round trip. Prissy can make her appointments, come and go when she wants all for two bucks. Two bucks! Why can't my Weebles take the Senior Center shuttle? They could even go to Mahket Basket on the shuttle, though they'd be limited to three grocery bags each. But no! It costs too much! Too much? Two bucks is half the price of a gallon of gas! If Ma didn't send all her money to the scammers, she would have the two bucks! Don't get me started. I need to go get some Visine to get the green out.

Had Me A Week

I’ve had me a week, and the week isn't even over. Awash in the elderly long distance as if I’m an electroweeblemagnet. I was supposed to get a lot accomplished this week. Cleaning for the holy day of obligation on Sunday, submitting a proposal to the children’s ed director for a calligraphy class for kids, working on a notebook for the faculty works in progress art show.

The downhill slide began on Tuesday. Prissy called.

“Are you busy?” which translates to “Can you come for coffee?”

Prissy thinks just because I’m a stay at home mom, I don’t have any “real” work to do. If I tell her I’m working on the class proposal or art work, I’d have to justify what I’m doing. Much easier to lie and if I invoke the name of Himself, I’m golden.

“Himself called from school, I have to send him some computer files.”

Back to work.

The phone rang again. Prissy.

“What’s cumin?”

“An herb.”

“I have a recipe that needs cumin. What can I substitute?”

“Parsley or cilantro.”

“No, I don’t want to use those. Guess I’ll have to go to the store to buy some cumin.”

“You do that.”

Back to work and then time to take a break. When we last left the Weebles last week after the Mahket expedition, I was not in Ma’s good graces because I refused to take her to the post office to mail entries to Auntie Rose. I had meant to call over the weekend, but vaccing up water from the basement, well, it slipped my mind. Freudian, I know. So, I thought I’d call just to see how they were doing and maybe earn some brownie points. Around quarter of 12, I dialed the Weebles. Busy signal. The Weebles don’t have Call Waiting or Caller ID. (They have FIOS even though Dad hardly turns the computer on, but the computer can sit still at lightning speed.) No worries, I’d watch the news while I had lunch and call back.

An hour later, the phone was still busy. Good ol’ Dad. Probably yacking with the church lady about the choir program or calling Sen. Kennedy in his Washington, DC office. He loves being able to call anywhere in the lower 48 for a flat rate. Lord, I hope it’s not Ma talking to Jamaica.

Sorted through more clutter. One more try before I had to pick The Young One up from school. Still busy. I knew someone had just left the phone off the hook, but there was a little prickle of worry. Suppose something happened? Suppose Ma had fallen, and Dad was off walking all over town? Suppose Ma sang the “You’re Stupid” song one too many times, and Dad imitated Lizzie Borden. Stupid Daddy took an axe.... Maybe there were problems on the phone line. Like the cord wrapped around Ma’s neck. I’d try one more time after I got The Young One home from school.

Still busy. I belted off an email to Himself.

Hey Kid,

On the way home, could you stop at the Weebles to see if they left the phone off the hook? Tell them, I’ll put in a service call if necessary

Love,
ME

K

Me too

A couple of hours later.

“I’m home!”

“So I see. Everything ok?”

“Yeah, they left the phone off the hook.”

Deep sigh of relief because I’d feel guilty if I made Himself go over there to find dead bodies even though finding dead bodies is definitely not a Little Princess thing to do.

“Was kind of funny,” he continued. “After I told them about the phone, they didn’t even remember I was there. Just lit into one another. You’re stupid you left the phone off the hook! I wasn’t even home. You’re stupid. No, You’re stupid.” Himself did a perfect imitation of the Weebles. “I finally just left.”

We had a good laugh.

I was on the phone talking with a calligraphy buddy when Call Waiting flashed the Weebles number.

“Lambie, I have to take this. I’ll call you back.”

It was Dad. Telling me how stupid Ma was because she left the phone off the hook.

An hour later, Ma called to tell me how stupid Dad was because he can’t hang the phone up correctly.

Wednesday. I had the early school shuttle and got an early start on my chores. Cleaning the clutter and vaccing the rugs for a change and not water in the basement.

During my midmorning tea break, I noticed a call had come through though a message hadn't been left on the voice mail. The call was from Prissy.

“Did you call?”

“Yes.”

“You didn’t leave a message.”

“It’s ok. I couldn’t get the lid off a can with the ring top. I finally used the can opener on it. Are you busy?”

“Yup, Himself called and wants me to send some computer files to him.”

Later that night, Prissy called again.

“Are you going to take my trash?”

A year ago, the town changed the cost of the sticker we had to buy to have the pleasure to haul our trash to the transfer station. (They get indignant if you call it the dump.) The sticker price dropped from $250 or so to a very reasonable $30 for the year. The catch was you had to buy special bags to toss your trash. The trash bags could only be bought at Jack’s station in the center of town. The bags were horrendously expensive. We contracted with a company to haul our trash away.

Since Prissy has a dinky bag of trash per week, and she was all a flutter with the cost of the bags, I told her I would pick her trash up and dump it with ours. She generously kicks in big bucks to the cost of the service.

“Oh, yeah, forgot that tomorrow is trash day. Leave the trash on your front steps, and I’ll have Himself pick it up when he gets home from karate.”

“I can drive over with it.”

Prissy has problems with her knees had one knee replacement done.

“No, just leave it on the front steps.”

“Are you sure you want to do this?”

We go through this Abbot and Costello routine every blessed week.

“He’ll pick it up!” Third base!

Thursday Night

I was chatting online with a friend. Relaxing after the day and reveling in the fact of no interruptions. The living room had been cleaned, I had prepared handouts for my calligraphy class on Saturday, made a Spring wreath and had cooked supper.

At quarter to nine the phone rang. Prissy.

“Are you in your jimmies?”

“No, what’s wrong?” At quarter to nine she isn’t calling to invite me for coffee.

“I can’t turn my television off.”

I wish I could just pull the plug.

Prissy met me at her front door with a flashlight. She has one lamp in the living room. One lamp with a 40 watt bulb. She was using the flashlight to locate the control panel on the television.

I tried using the remote and nada. I pushed the power button on the television and the tv went pictureless and silent.

“Oh! But how do I change the numbers?”

She meant change the channel. I turned the television back on and showed her the up and down channel button.

“Oh! Why doesn’t the remote work?”

Since none of the buttons illuminated, I suspected the remote needed new batteries.

“What kind of batteries do I need?”

I pried the cover of the remote off.

“Four small ones, Triple A’s.”

“Where do I put them?”

I was so tempted to tell her exactly where she could put her batteries.

Beet This

Sunday, a quiet day in our sleepy, little town. I was glad for the quiet. Heavy rains had Himself and I taking turns round the clock vaccing up water in the basement. With the sun shining and warm temps, all the water aggravation seemed a very distant memory instead of passed a scant few hours.

I was looking out the front window when a car pulled up and parked in front of Prissy’s house. At first, I thought she must be having company, but why didn’t they park in her driveway? Maybe they were having car trouble. A young couple got out of the car. They were nicely dressed. The young man wore a suit and tie. The young woman was wearing a dress and dress shoes. An alarm went off in my head. The first nice, warm, sunny day, and just like robins, they arrive. The young man was carrying some papers. They walked up Prissy’s long, circular driveway.

I sprinted to the phone, shoving Himself out of the way. I speed dialed Prissy. The young couple had reached her front walk. One ring. They climbed the front steps. Two rings. C’mon, c’mon, pick up the phone! The young man rang the bell. I dance from one foot to the other. Where the hell is she? Three rings.

“Hello?”

“Don’t answer your door!” I didn’t bother to say hello or identify myself.

There was a pause and then recognition kicked in.

“Do you want to come over for coffee?”

“Not with company on your doorstep.”

“When they leave. I have something for you.”

“Ok. See you in a little bit.” I hung up the phone.

“What was that all about?” asked Himself.

“Just the early warning system.”

Himself looked out the front window and saw the young couple get back in their car.

He shook his head at me.

“Look, she’s an old woman living all by herself.”

“Oh sure, make what you’re doing sound holy.”

I laughed. Okay, I’m evil. I admit it. It wasn’t a very nice thing to do. I’m sure others have done the same thing. The only difference is I admitted my guilt. I don’t care to have strangers come to my front door. I don’t even like friends and relatives dropping by unannounced!

Most likely, the couple was harmless. Only here to pass a bit of time and talk about their passion. I did it once, long ago. Chatted with another young woman. Spoke about the differences and the similarities. Five minutes. Ten minutes. On and on. She wouldn’t leave! I’d be more receptive if the presentation was short and sweet. Hi, how are you? Here’s a pamphlet for you to read. Bye now. Have a nice day.

“If you like, I can go outside to flag them down, and then you can talk to them.”

“Nope, that’s okay.” He disappeared to the bunker and the comfort of his Lazy Boy.

I watched the car move on down the street. I waited a short time and called Prissy.

“Put the kettle on, I’m coming over.”

Sunday is a tough day for Prissy to pass. She and her husband used to go out on Sundays. They would take rides to New Hampshire if the weather was nice. They would go to the track at Lincoln Park. They would go out to eat. Prissy’s husband has been gone for ten years now, and still Sunday is the hardest day of the week for her.

She had the table all set for tea as I took off my coat and hung it on the back of my chair.

Her clock was lying on the table at my place.

“Could you put that up for me?” She was able to get the clock down to change the time for daylight savings.

She brought me a step stool and I climbed up to hang the clock back on the wall.

Prissy danced at my side. “Don’t fall!”

I almost said I needed money to pay two tuitions, but decided to keep my smart mouth shut.

With my chore done, Prissy brought out what she had for me. She had a bottle of Diet Dr. Pepper.

“Could you use this? I picked up the diet by mistake.”

“Sorry, Priss, we don’t drink diet tonic.”

She frowned. Apparently, she had tried to pawn it off on her daughter who doesn’t drink diet soda either.

“Why don’t you take it with you to the Senior Center? I’m sure someone would take it.”

“Ooh, that’s a good idea.”

We sat and had our tea and gossip.

“Oh, I thought of you. I saw something in the paper.” She went to the living room and shuffled through the Sunday paper lying on the hassock by her chair. “Here it is!” Prissy brought an article for me to look at.

The article was about a 100 year old man and his secret to longevity. First, he drank a concoction of apple cider vinegar and honey, daily. Second, he ate beets and drank beet juice. Some of you may recall, Ma had 24 cans of beets in her pantry and wanted to go shopping to by more because they were a good price.

Beets! Beets full of beet juice! 24 cans! And more arriving. The hair on the back of my neck stood straight up. The Weebles are going to live forever.

I'm Not Able to Take Your Call

Wednesday it poured. I alternated between speaking in tongues and humming ditties as I manned the shop vac. It wasn’t a flood of water. Just enough of a continuous puddle under the washer to make a pain in the ( ! ) of itself. The rain was coming down heavy. The ground was frozen with a recent snowfall with ice that turned to rain. The water had no place to go and the interior drain is either clogged or just couldn’t take the amount of water.

This was not a Little Princess job. I wanted to be Chip Morton, the XO on the Seaview. I wanted to give orders. “Chief, close off frame 34 and get a detail down there with pumps and clean up the mess!” I wanted to hear a snappy “Aye, aye, sir, I’ll get right on it.” No one but me around she said as she raised her wrist to her forehead.

As I was about to empty the vac, the phone rang. It was Prissy.

“What am I going to do?” she said her voice rising in panic.

Help me, Lord, I don’t want to play 20 questions now.

“Do you have water in your basement?” That’s one.

“Yes, the water is seeping under the cellar door. Oh what should I do?”

I thought of several answers. Drop back fifteen and punt. Bend over and kiss your ( ! ) goodbye. Sing Nearer My God to Thee… Sell the damn house and move in with your daughter…

“Should I turn off the furnace?” she said interrupting my clever musings.

“Your furnace is on blocks, right?” Two

“Yes.”

“Is the water up to the blocks?” Three

“Yes.”

“Has the water reached the blocks?” Four

“No, the water is just seeping under the cellar door.”

“Then for Gawdsakes don’t turn the furnace off.”

“Oh, what should I do.”

I almost started to sing the ditty from an old McDonald's commercial. Grab a bucket and mop...

“Do you have a shop vac?” Five

“Yes, but my son took it.”

Figures. At this point, I didn’t want to be helpful. I wanted to be the kid and to call some adult to come and take care of my problem. I no longer wanted to be the designated adult.

“Call your daughter and have your son in law come down to help you out. Look my moat is overflowing and I have to go.”

“Oh, ok.”

Friday morning, I had dropped the Young One off at school. Showered, and was having a cup of tea and playing on the computer killing time until it was time to leave to pick the Eldest up from her college. She wanted to come home for the long, holiday weekend.

The phone rang. It was Prissy.

“Is your refrigerator running?”

At first I thought she was joking. Like the prank telephone calls we played as kids. Is your refrigerator running? You better run after it. I heard a note of panic in her voice.

“My refrigerator is running.”

“Yeah, they do that.”

“It doesn’t shut off. What should I do?”

Buy a new one?

“What if it stops?”

“At least it’s a good time of year if it does. You can put all your food on the porch.” I said helpfully.

Evidently my suggestion wasn’t good enough. She wanted me to go over, but I had to leave to pick up The Eldest.

While taking a break before I had to cook supper, the phone rang. Prissy, again.

“Is your refrigerator running?”

“Yes, it does that from time to time.”

“Does it shut off.”

“Yes, after it goes through it’s cycle.”

“Mine doesn’t. What should I do?”

I was so tempted to say “Pretend I’m dead.”

Spread a Little Sunshine

Some days you just get everything right. Before the holidays, I had promised to take Ma to get her hair done. Between the holidays, bad weather, and my hairdresser being booked, the plan never happened until Friday.

There was a threat of bad weather, but the storm fizzled and a snowy mix turned to rain. Himself went to pick Ma up and bring her out. I’d take Ma to have her hair done, and then bring her over for lunch. Dad would have a welcome day off. That was the plan.

Himself called me just as he was getting on the offramp from the Pike. It was getting close to Ma’s appointment time so he dropped her off at the hairdresser’s and I bolted out the door to meet him. We executed a perfect Chinese fire drill with the cars.

The hairdresser pampered and catered to Ma. She did a beautiful job cutting and evening out her previous do which Dad had done for Ma. That was the reason for getting Ma to the hairdresser. My bad, just didn’t think about her hair. Didn’t think Dad and a pair of scissors was a good thing. I could just imagine one wrong “you’re stupid remark” and pffft! Sweeney Todd.

I had also decided to invite Prissy over for lunch. Figured Ma would have a new face to talk and sing to. Prissy would have a change of pace. It was a win win.

Lunch went well. The weeble ladies had a nice time chatting with one another. As Hannibal used to say, “I love it when a plan comes together.” Let the sun shine!

Fun In The Snow

Late in the afternoon, The Young One and I had just finished digging my car out of the snow. Cold and tired we were anticipating a well deserved rest and a cup of hot chocolate when the phone rang. Even before I looked at the caller ID, I knew it was Prissy.

Prissy has her large circular driveway plowed, but the plower doesn't shovel her front walk or clean off her car.

"Does the Young One want to earn some money? I'll pay her to shovel my walk and brush off the car." she asked.

"We just finished digging my car out. Do you have a shovel because I broke my good one?"

"Yes, I have shovels and a broom to brush off the car with."

Ok, give us an hour and we'll come over to do yours."

An hour later, The Young One groaned as we pulled on our boots and grabbed gloves.

"Why does she have to have her car dug out now? She won't be going anywhere." said the Young One looking longingly at the laptop.

"I know, but old people are funny that way. They worry about things." I grabbed the crappy shovel and we crossed the street.

"What does she have to worry about?"

"If the snow isn't cleared she'll worry about things like, if she has a heart attack, how will the rescue people get to the front door? How will the oil delivery man deliver the heating oil? How will the electric company read the meter? Stuff like that."

The Young One made the classic teen face and sighed deeply. Her breath plumed in front of her. She took the crappy shovel and began digging out the back of the car.

Prissy came to the front door with shovels and a broom. I waded up the front walk and she handed them to me.

"I'll put my boots on and come out and help you."

"No, that's ok. We got it covered." The last thing I would need would be for Prissy to have a heart attack while shoveling her stairs. I patted my coat pocket to make sure I had my cell phone with me.

"I don't need the whole front walk shoveled," she said. "Just a path so I can get to the car."

I nodded.

A few minutes later, Prissy came out dressed in her coat, boots, hat and gloves.

"Here, let me help you."

"No! Get in the house!"

"Young One, brush the snow off the car this way." Prissy made motions with her mittened hands and started down the stairs.

"Will you get in the house! Go make me a cup of tea!"

Prissy took another step and started to open her mouth.

"Get in the @%$@# house before you slip and fall and break a hip." I played the trump card. "Go put the kettle on, I want a cup of tea."

Prissy mumbled something and went into the house.

The Young One snickered. "Dude," she called to me. "She just wants to help."

"I know, but the last thing we need is her telling us how to shovel or having to call 9-1-1 to have someone come and pick her butt out of the snow. Besides, if she was able to do this, she could have come out earlier in the day and done this instead of waiting until it was dark. Old people," I grumbled.

The Young One regarded me for a minute and nodded sagely.

Let The Sun Shine

This little tidbit is about my weeble neighbor, Prissy, and the arrangement we have with regards to trash pick up. Rather than spend the amount of money the town wanted us to pay for a permit plus special bags to haul our own trash, we decided to contract with a waste management company. Since Prissy has such a teensy bag of trash, I told her she might as well put hers with ours. Every Sunday night or Monday morning, I would go over have a fast cup of tea and collect her trash. When she has some do ri me, she kindly kicks some our way towards the bill. Two weeks ago, our trash pick up day was changed from Monday afternoon to early Thursday morning. We had Prissy put her trash on her front stoop Wednesday night and when Himself got home from karate and T'ai Chi classes, he would go over to pick up the garbage.

Prissy called me to go over for tea this afternoon. It was a dreary, rainy day and I figured she wanted a little bit of company. We chatted as she set the tea things out. Bits of this and that. After an hour, I got up to leave.

"Oh, wait before you go." She brought out a plate of muffins. "I baked these for Himself. He's been so kind coming to get my trash." She held the offering and beamed.

Hello! Who picked up your trash for over a year on Sunday nights or Monday mornings? Through rain or snow and dark of night, weaving and dodging the peeping eyes of the Leaf Lady, I was ever faithful and stayed my rounds. Prissy never baked muffins for me! What is it with mothers and sons, even if they are adopted? Weebles, you can't win for losing. Well, Himself and I had a good laugh and enjoyed the muffins. When Himself bent to retrieve a muffin liner that fell on the floor, the sun came out.

Professor Einstein

The phone rang. Caller ID identified the caller as Prissy.

"Hi, Prissy."

"What's 20 percent of $15?

"20 percent of $15?" Himself was getting ready for graduation, and he chuckled. I'm not know as the bright crayon in the math box.

"How do you get 20 percent of $15?"

"Oh, the easiest way is to take 10 percent and double it." I stuck my tongue out at Himself. There was dead silence on the end of the phone. Ten percent of $15 is a buck and a half. A buck and a half and a buck and a half is...."

"Three dollars."

"Good. Ok?"

"I thought she cheated me. But I can see now she didn't." She hung up the phone.

After I hung up the phone, I turned smugly to Himself. "Proud of me? I did the math in my head."

He snorted. "You could have multiplied the dollar amount by 2 and just moved the decimal point."

I stuck my tongue out.

Himself Knows Best

I was relaxing in the sunroom, taking a well-deserved rest. I had me a week dealing with Prissy and her problems. You’ll recall the leaking pipe hysterics. Then there was a call because she had pressed several buttons on her channel changer and changed the picture to video snow.

The phone rang. Himself got up to answer it.

“That’s either The Eldest calling from work looking for a ride home or Prissy.”

“Herself is right here.” Himself handed me the phone and settled Himself in his Lazboy.

I sighed. Prissy. I pantomimed hanging myself.

She had pressed the buttons on the channel changer again.

I looked to the heavens took a deep breath and counted to ten. “Open the front panel of the television and press the button on the far right side.”

She put the phone down, and I could hear her shuffle to the television.

“I did what you said, but nothing happened.”

I told her I’d be over. Hung up the phone and let out a feral yell. "Couldn't you have told her I was dead?"

Himself chuckled. “Cheer up. Soon you’ll be a Weeble, and you can call up people to aggravate them.”

The Ductless Wonder

The Saturday before Mother’s Day began early with a dash to take my car to the shop for a brake check and oil change. I followed Himself in his car. We made the drop and I drove back and took him to the dojo where he taught budding grasshoppers. Home for a shower and breakfast. I made a mental note for the rest of the day’s schedule:

Drop The Eldest at work.

Get The Youngest Up.

The Youngest to help with the pre-holy day of obligation cleaning.

Wait for call from dealer re: auto

Pick Himself up from dojo after the beginner belt test

Pick car up from dealer with minimal damage to check book.

Stop at party store for table cloth, napkins for holy day table setting.

As the Eldest and I were getting into the car for her commute, Prissy called from across the street. Wanted me to go over when I got back.

I sighed deeply as this coffee klatch would cut a chunk out of the schedule. It’s far easier to go visit Prissy than to try to explain why I’m busy.

When I got to Prissy’s, she was crying hysterically into a dish towel. Crying is to mild a word. She was keening and couldn’t speak. The crying was reaching banshee levels, and I thought one of her children or grandchildren had died.

I kept asking what was wrong. She finally handed me a flashlight, pushed me towards the cellar door. I went downstairs with her following me still with her face buried in the dish towel.

“I don’t know where it’s coming from!” she blubbered.

In the dark recesses of the basement where the spiders lurk, I could see a large puddle of water on the floor. I bit my tongue. Yeah, the water on the floor was a pain in the butt, but nothing to cry hysterically over. Certainly, it deserved speaking in tongues, but not blubbering into a dish towel.

She pushed me toward the well pump. The foundation was soaked. I put my hand up to touch the wall. The light was so dim I couldn’t tell whether the wall was really wet or just discolored from age. Over the pump tank, I felt a fine spray of water on my hand and soon found a pinhole leak in the pipe that leads to the tank.

In between sniffles she tells me she called her children, but all they did was yell at her. They yelled at her to call a plumber. I had the same thought, but tried to keep my voice level and reassuring. What solves all sorts of problems? Duct tape.

I followed her upstairs to get the duct tape. She handed me a roll of electrical tape. I told her I’d go home to get the duct tape and for her to call the plumber.

When I got back, her daughter had arrived and was screaming and yelling at Prissy. Prissy had a small leak last year in one of the pipes over the washer. She had a few of the pipes replaced, but not all the pipes as her daughter told her she should. Prissy can be pennywise and pound foolish, a common OPD trait.

The daughter turned on me. “Duct tape isn’t going to work.”

I almost told her how well it would work if I took a piece and patched her mouth and then shoved the rest of the roll up….nevermind. I went downstairs with The Daughter hot on my heels. I patched the pipe. I went back upstairs and spoke to Prissy. Told her the patch would hold for a little while, but she needed to call a plumber and have him come over in the afternoon. I left as quickly as I could to the wails of Prissy and The Daughter’s yelling.

I tried to recapture lost time and got back to the pre-holy day chores. Not more than an hour went by when the phone rang. It was Prissy, and she wanted me to go over. I looked out the front window, saw the daughter had gone. I had just made a cup of tea so I told the Youngest I would be back on Tuesday and took my cup of tea across the street.

My first question was whether she had got hold of a plumber. When she nodded, I sat down, sipped my tea, and listened to how rotten kids can be. How she asks very little of them and how do they repay her? I nod sympathetically into my cup. Daughter screamed at her because of the leak and son gave her a hard time about coming to spread two yards of loam. After Prissy vented, I made my escape back to the pre-holy day obligations.

The Young One and I cleaned, dusted and vacuumed while watching “My Big Fat Greek Wedding” Just as we were leaving to pick up Sensei Himself. The phone rang. Prissy wanted to borrow a bicycle pump. Himself had some sort of foot operated pump, but this would be buried in the deepest, darkest recesses of the garage where the spiders lurk. I had already braved spiders for one day so told her didn’t have a pump. Not to mention the dealer was close to closing and I had to go pick up the car.

Himself had to listen to me vent on the ride up to the dealer. I’m amazed at the difference in the female generations. The need for someone else to solve the problem of the older generation. I’m glad I put the roll of duct tape on top of my black tool box, my purchased early by me Mother’s Day gift from Himself.

Weeblegency

Prissy called. "What are you doing? Could you come over?"

I glance at the clock to see that it is 8PM. Prissy is usually in her jammies. "What's wrong, this time?"

This is the third phone call from Prissy today. She called early this morning while I was in the shower. When I called her back, she wanted to know what the Leaf Lady was having done at her house this morning. Now, the Leaf Lady hasn't spoken to me in 15 years. My first thought was I don't give a...but I bit my tongue. "She's having her windows replaced."

"How do you know that?"

"She had me over for coffee and told me!"

The second time she called to ask if the mail came. I've been trying to letter samples for a client for Monday and I've been in the basement all morning. My X-ray vision must've been on the fritz because I couldn't see through the wall.

"What's the problem?"

"Could you come over?"

"What's the problem."

"It's the TV. I was watching a video (she meant DVD) and now there's girls exercising. Could you come over? I can't get the video out.

As I head up the stairs, Number One Daughter cheerfully calls after me, "See ya Tuesday!"

Himself was in the kitchen as I raced by. "I've got a Weeblegency."

"See ya Tuesday."

I grabbed my jacket and raced across the street. I leaned on the bell several times because the ringing doorbell always makes Prissy jump to the ceiling. LOL Can't help it, it's funny.

She's wearing her pajamas, frowning in front of the television, and the svelte figures are aerobic dancing. Yup, girls excercising.

Prissy's bird hands begin flapping.

"You've got the TV on and not the DVD player." I go to the DVD player and turn it on. The screen flickers and soon the alarming FBI warning flickers into clarity.

"How did you do that?"

"Magic. I turned the DVD player On."

"Well, I don't want to watch it now."

I bite my tongue. Remove the DVD from the player, turn the player off, and the girls go back to their exercise routine. "Make me a cup of tea." I suspect Prissy just wanted a little company.